


when we touch (i can’t get enough)

by orphan_account



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Lingerie, Semi-Public Sex, Wall Sex, mentions/brief appearances of other tk peeps, pls, pls pls remember the first rule of rpf club, there's a fancy shmancy partay involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-04-25 08:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: claire can’t help but tempt brad until he loses control sometimes
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 5
Kudos: 60





	when we touch (i can’t get enough)

**Author's Note:**

> for anna (@wellhellofuture) without whom this would no longer exist. 
> 
> forgive me my mistakes, i try to quash them but alas, most of them probably live on; i hope you enjoy, and please don't share this in places it shouldn't be shared-- it's pure fiction and should be treated as such :)

Brad and Claire start dating in secret in August. Claire wants to keep things quiet because enough of them are on display on a frighteningly regular basis, can’t they just have this? Just for now? And he agrees readily; anything for Claire, anything that will make her happy he’ll do. She grins, kisses him fervidly (because they _do that now_, much to his delight). 

By December, they’re still sneaking around like school children; Claire is equal parts as giddy by it as she is fiercely protective of their secret, and Brad is just ecstatic to be with Claire at all, but _especially_ ecstatic when he pulls her around a corner in the test kitchen, hidden from view, presses his lips to hers and gets to hear her giggle in that breathless, excited way she does. 

Condé Nast throw a company wide party every December, and it’s usually black tie. It’s the kind of event Brad usually goes to only to show his face, briefly, before he leaves and grabs a pizza on his way back to New Jersey. This year, however, is decidedly different. For two reasons. 

  
First of all, Rapo has told him, in no uncertain terms, that he is to show up, look good, network, and at the very least look as if he’s having a good time. Apparently he’s a face of Bon Appétit or some shit now, and he has to act like it. Which, in Brad’s very professional opinion, is bullshit (logically, he knows Rapo is probably right, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it). 

Second of all, (and most importantly), he’s dating Claire now. It’s different to last year because, now, when he glances across the opulent ballroom and meets Claire’s gaze, it isn’t with a pining, desperate look that will remain unfulfilled. He, lucky son of a bitch that he is, gets to go home with _Claire Saffitz_ tonight, and kiss her and touch her and love her _openly_. 

He can hardly believe his damn luck most of the time. 

He can certainly hardly believe his damn luck when Claire leaves the bedroom and enters the living room where Brad is waiting. She looks just slightly bashful, glancing down at her outfit and the heels in her hand as she rests a hand against the doorframe. A soft pink flames on her cheeks that’s a little muted by her makeup, but he sees it nonetheless. 

Brad swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. He shifts, all the blood in his body starting to migrate southwards and they’re getting dangerously close to being very, _very_ late to this party because Claire looks _sinfully_ good tonight. 

His gaze sweeps over her in a way that’s openly hungry and just a little feral, and he watches his interest embolden Claire, sees how she straightens and starts moving towards him with a confidence she didn’t have when she’d first entered the room. 

Claire’s dress is black and _clinging_ to her. It’s low cut enough to give him a view, but reveals little enough to still be suitable for the event; it flows over the curve of her hips and stops near the floor; there’s a slit that goes up to just above her knee, just enough to leave him wanting _more_. 

The only way to describe how she crosses the room to him is _hot_. He’s 99% sure his brain has completely short-circuited because that’s the only word he can think of. She reaches him, drags her fingertips across his suit jacket (he hates this damn jacket, finds it almost as suffocating as the fucking tie he’s got on, but when Claire does shit like that in that sexy, _Claire_ way of hers, he barely minds at all), and crosses her arms behind his neck. 

Her fingers are threading through the hair at the nape of his neck and tugging just-so and he can’t _breathe_. 

Every inch of her is pressed up against him, a pair of heels dangling behind his back as she leans just slightly closer, glances up at him through her eyelashes and says lowly, “You like?”

Brad almost chokes trying to get words out of his mouth in an order that sounds coherent (and still doesn’t succeed in doing so). “I— uh, _yes_. Yes, I, um— I definitely… I like.” His voice actually, genuinely breaks on one (...or more) of those words, and he feels like a teenager getting his first look at a pretty girl and not being able to hide how absolutely, completely wrecked he feels just from looking. Claire smirks, shifts her hand just enough that she can scratch gently at his neck. 

His knees almost buckle. 

This woman has such a strong hold on him; he is unequivocally, absolutely, completely, forever-and-always _hers_. He would do anything for her (and she for him, he knows), and will only mildly complain while doing it. “God, _fuck_, I love you,” he says, meeting her dark eyes with a look that’s half utter devotion and half lust. 

She melts even further into him with a tender, provocative smile that has him completely at her mercy, if he wasn’t already. She presses her lips to his jaw because, _Jesus fucking Christ_, clearly she’s trying to _murder _him (she’s succeeding, as far as he’s concerned). “I love you too,” she murmurs against the scruff of his jawline, then pulls back and uses her thumb to wipe off some lipstick that smudged onto him. 

He sways just a little further into her, ducks his head to capture her lips in a kiss he feels like he’s starving for, but she swings back away from him, a smirk curving her lips. “Nuh-uh,” she scolds teasingly, raking her nails through the patch of scruff she’d just wiped lipstick off. “Lipstick. I don’t think this is your colour, Leone.”

And then she’s gone, her body no longer pressed tight against his, and he’s helpless to the low groan that slips out of him. Her back is facing him for the first time, and the dress dips low enough that he can see the creamy skin of her back and shoulders, again without revealing too much, and once again he’s forced to consider that Claire Saffitz may actually be the death of him someday soon. She crosses the room, sits down on the couch, places her heels on the floor and gestures for him to come closer. “C’mere,” she says, “Help me put these on, I can’t bend that far.”

If his brain were working anywhere near coherently, he’d probably think that it’s a little odd that Claire can’t reach down to put her shoes on, but his mind’s so hazy and focused on _Claire_ in _that_ fucking dress that he really, really can’t think. “Uh, yeah, sure Claire.”

When he reaches her, he kneels down, drags his hand down her calf to give her a taste of her own damn medicine. If he’s spending the night vibrating with sexual tension and barely-restrained want, then so’s she. All’s fair in love and war, after all. He hears her breath hitch at the touch and he smirks up at her, she rolls her eyes and tugs on his hair, evidently making the most of her uninhibited access (and the _thing_ he has for whenever she does that) since the party is a decidedly no-beanie zone.

He loves her like this, unashamedly confident in herself. It’s not something that happens as often as he’d like (although he’s working on it), and when it does happen, it’s usually because she’s _nailed_ a recipe or flavour profile and she _knows_ it. Tonight though, she’s wearing a gorgeous dress and she looks frankly fucking delicious in it, and she _knows_ it.

Once her shoes are on, he stands, offering her his hand to pull her up, too. When she’s stood, Brad presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist before he drops her hand. “You ready to go?” 

“Think so,” she says, turning to grab her purse from the couch, and smoothing her hands over the fabric of her dress. “You?”

“As I’ll ever be, Half-Sour,” he replies, taking her hand and leading her out of the apartment. 

* * *

The crisp, cool air is enough to bring Brad somewhat back to his senses, the fog in his mind clearing enough that he could probably string together a sentence that makes some sort of sense. They get a cab; Brad holds the door open for Claire and watches her get in. Now, when he can think a little clearer, he notices the strange way that Claire holds herself as she gets in, the way she avoids bending her torso too extensively, the way her breathing shallows as she does. But, she sits and she acts relatively normally, if not holding herself a little weirdly, so he dismisses the thoughts and tells himself that he’s seeing things. 

They reach the venue, a large, towering building — as to be expected in Manhattan, he supposes — that’s decked out to the freaking nines, a large staircase leading up to a large door with a large banner hanging across it, and he has to sigh at the pomp and circumstance of the whole thing. Suddenly, Claire’s hand is on his arm, and she’s looking up at him through her eyelashes again, and he _knows_ it’s a distraction technique but, fuck it, it’s working. 

“It’ll be fine,” she says gently. “I know you hate this shit, and wearing this—” she tugs on his tie, “— but you’ll be fine.” Then, she drops her voice and speaks low, and slow, with words practically dripping with promise, “I’ll make it worth your while, Leone.” She waggles her eyebrows at him and he chuckles, catches the corner of her lips in a kiss before she has time to pull away. 

“You’re gonna kill me, Saffitz,” he murmurs, trying to kiss her again but missing her lips as she swings away from him. He groans. 

“That’s the plan,” she winks. They get out of the cab, and Brad’s hand rests briefly on the small of the back before he pulls it away, lest someone see them. “Alright, Leone, you go in first. I’m late for most things, may as well be late for this, too.”

“Ya never think about, I dunno, maybe workin’ on the whole bein’ late thing?”

“Nope,” she chuckles, (breathlessly, he notes with some degree of confusion), and takes his hand in hers, squeezes it, then lets it go as quickly as she picked it up. “Go,” she urges, “I’ll be right in.”

Brad enters the decked-out ballroom and is once again struck by the ridiculous opulence of the place; the curtains probably cost more than Claire’s entire apartment in Brooklyn. He fiddles a little self-consciously with his tie, never quite at ease in a place like this, constantly questioning how a New Jersey boy through and through ended up in a place this classy at a party so exclusive. Dating someone who feels as out of his league as Claire freaking Saffitz doesn’t help with his imposter syndrome (although, she does tell him over and over again that it’s _her_ that doesn’t deserve _him_, and that he’s one of the best damn chefs she’s ever met who deserves _every_ success he’s had— he tries to remind himself of that as often as he can). 

He grabs a flute of Champagne off a serving tray if only so he has something to keep his hands busy, and sets to work on finding wherever the BA chefs and editors have congregated, as they always do. He finds them all against one of the walls near a corner, each with a different cocktail in hand and all laughing together in a small group. Brad lets out a soft sigh of relief, finally finding some familiarity in a place he feels so lost. 

“Brad!” Molly says cheerfully, quite evidently not on her first drink of the night, and Brad smiles in return. 

“Hey, Molly! How’s it goin’?”

“It’s going good, my friend. You here with anyone this fine eve?”

“Who the hell’d I be here with, huh?” he asks, with a fairly large degree of irony, because, _technically_, he came with Claire. 

“I dunno man, special lady friend, maybe,” Delany adds in, a cheeky waggle of his eyebrows punctuating the remark. Now it really _is_ ironic. 

“Nah, not our buddy Brad,” Chris pitches in, slapping a hand against Brad’s back, “he’s probably gonna ditch the second nobody’s looking.” Everyone laughs and agrees with Chris, each starting to exchange stories of all the times they’ve seen Brad sneak out of this event over the years. 

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” he chuckles, “Not this year, Rapo gave me a tellin’ off.”

He watches Andy’s mouth open with some kind of retort, but all collective jaws drop at precisely the same moment, and when Brad turns, his does too. He’s already seen Claire tonight, witnessed first-hand how that dress clings to the curves of her body, but there’s something about how the lights hit her in the ballroom, something about seeing her walking over to their group of friends with a purse in one hand and a flute of Champagne in the other that is jaw-droppingly gorgeous. 

“Hey guys,” she says, smiling and tucking a strand of wavy hair behind her ear a little shyly. 

“_Claire_!” Carla’s the first to speak, “You look amazing!”

“Thanks, Carla,” Claire smiles. 

“She’s right, Claire. Holy shmoly that _dress_,” Molly grins, and then Claire is subsequently pulled away by both Carla and Molly to talk about it. Claire says over her shoulder that she’ll catch up with everyone later, briefly meeting Brad’s eye. 

The three ladies move far enough away that most of the conversation is inaudible, but little snippets sometimes drift over to Brad, who’s stood at the edge of the group discussing wines with Delany. His attention is split, not fully on Delany and not fully on Claire, but residing somewhere in between both. He’s paying enough attention to contribute to his conversation, but also flicking his eyes up and down the length of Claire’s body, watching as she laughs softly. 

“_Claire_,” Molly starts, and Brad only feels a little bad about eavesdropping. “You are looking _smoking_ tonight, babe, you’ve gotta tell us your secret.”

“Thanks, Mols, but I don’t really have one.”

“Oh come _on_, Saffitz,” Carla pitches in, but then Brad has to focus back on his conversation with Delany, and he misses what’s said next. Delany talks about a red wine and how it pairs well with some kind of pasta dish and Brad _thinks_ he might promise to make it with Delany next time they’re in the TK just to double check before he puts it in an issue of the magazine. 

Then, though, he can’t think at all. He may not hear what Carla says, but he definitely hears Claire. 

“Okay, okay, fine,” he hears Claire laugh, and it’s breathless like it has been all night, like she can’t get enough air in to laugh like she wants to. “I’ll tell you. It’s a corset.”

Now Brad’s the one who’s breathless. Much like Claire, he imagines, his chest is restricted by _something_ and suddenly his mouth is dry and his blood is too hot for his veins and he couldn’t pay any attention to Delany and his fucking wine pairings even if he wanted to. Maybe he hears Molly and Carla and Claire say something after that, maybe he even says something to Alex, but he feels like he’s entered some other realm or some shit because Jesus fucking Christ — Claire Saffitz is wearing a _corset_ under her incredibly beautiful dress and he’s just supposed to… what? Continue functioning _normally_ with this knowledge? 

“Hey,” Delany says, pulling Brad back into the present (in which Claire is wearing a _corset_, thank you very much). “You alright, man? You’ve gone a little quiet there, bud.” 

“I, uh, yeah, I’m fine. I just… I need some air,” Brad replies, starting to move away from Alex so he can get out of the ballroom. He sees concern cross Delany’s face though, so jokes, “Just not used to spendin’ so much time at one of these fuckin’ things,” and laughs so Delany doesn’t seem quite so concerned. 

To Brad’s relief, Alex laughs back, and says, “Fair enough, bro,” before turning and joining in on whatever conversation Chris, Andy and Sohla, who just arrived, are having. 

Brad breaks away from the rest of the Bon Appétit chefs, and finds a solitary area far enough away that he can’t hear any of anyone’s conversations. He needs to clear his mind, needs to stop conjuring images of what Claire looks like underneath her dress, in only a fucking corset, because he’s getting dangerously close to scandalising a few of the people at this party. 

“Hey,” he hears from his side, and he lets out a strangled groan that he couldn’t have possibly have kept in because _of course_ it’s Claire. The universe has it out for him tonight, he’s convinced. “You alright?” she asks, concern shining in her dark, dark eyes as her small hand rests on his arm. “You ran away from Alex pretty quick there, babe.”

And, really, all things considered, he thinks it’s probably the _babe_ that does it. It’s the memory of her whining that word, panting that word into his ear while they’re fucking; it’s the imagined image of her panting it again wearing nothing but a corset as he fucks into her like he’ll never let her go— never let anyone else see her in just a corset because that’s his privilege and nobody else’s. 

Brad grabs Claire’s wrist in a move that’s as rough as it is unexpected. He hears her gasp from behind him as he pulls her along with a single-minded focus. 

“Brad—” she starts, breathless, “—what are you—”

(If either of them were paying more attention, they might’ve seen Molly sigh and turn to Carla; might’ve even heard her say, “God, they’re _so_ gonna fuck,” and subsequently heard Carla’s easy, unquestioning agreement). 

Brad rounds a corner and finds a little nook in the wall that’s shrouded by fake plants and shadowed enough to obscure them for the rest of the party. He crowds her against the wall and presses his lips to hers in a hard, insistent kiss that’s rough and unrelenting and intense. Claire lets out a startled gasp against Brad’s lips when he kisses her, but succumbs to it, allowing Brad to take the control she’s held onto all night. 

He rolls his hips against hers, lets her feel what she’s doing to him, listens and relishes her whimper in response, pulls his hips back when she seeks more. It’s _his_ turn now. 

“Brad,” she whines against his lips. 

Abruptly, Brad pulls away. He abandons the heat of her body and leaves her leaning against a wall, breathless and wanting and confused. She’s looking at him with hooded, desperate eyes but he knows they can’t go any further here— he’s just barely grasping onto the last bit of cognisant thought and it’s telling him to stop _now_ or he won’t stop at all. 

He grabs her hand, again without warning, and he’s vibrating with pure, unadulterated _need_ as he pulls her along behind him. He doesn’t stop — doesn’t think he _could_ stop — until he reaches a desolate hallway with restrooms (thank God for small miracles). He back her into an empty one, then shuts, locks and backs her against the door in a movement that shouldn’t seem so practised and smooth given how wrecked Brad feels right then. 

“_You_,” he murmurs, connecting his lips to the column of her neck, biting and kissing and sucking, very obviously uncaring towards whether or not he leaves a mark in his wake. His lips travel, up her neck, across her jaw, up to nip at the hinge of her jaw and that spot behind her ear that he’s come to know and love. She almost buckles against him, her breaths hot and heavy and fanning across his skin; she’s whimpering and whining, trying to roll her hips down against the leg he wedged between hers but not quite being able to with the weight of Brad’s hands holding her back. 

“_Fuck_, Brad,” she hisses, trying again, desperately, for some friction. “_Please_.”

Brad pulls his lips from her, leans back enough so that he can catch her gaze. Her pupils are blown wide with lust, the colour almost entirely eclipsed by inky black and he knows that a similar glint of sheer want and need and something slightly wild is shining from his eyes to hers. Brad’s eyes watch Claire’s throat as she swallows. 

He presses his hips into hers a little more forcefully, pinning her there. He gathers her slim wrists in his hands and pins them against the door above her head. She is completely and utterly at his mercy, and she knows it. She gasps, her hips grinding against his again at the abrupt friction. 

“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” he asks, sounding equally desperate and assertive, and he hears her whine again, hears her breath leaving her in pants, and he can _see_ how much she _wants_. Her cheeks are flushed and her chest is heaving and her eyelids are flicking every time she manages to shift her hips _just-so_, like it’s too much and not enough all at the same time. 

Brad feels like he’s on an edge, so intensely close to falling off and losing control. He doesn’t allow himself to lose control often, is generally content to let Claire take the reins, especially in bed; he loves whispering praise in her ear as she works, and he tends to pride himself on his ability to keep himself in check. But tonight… tonight the exception to end all exceptions, Claire has well and truly ruffled his feathers and taken the game to a whole new ballpark. She’s wearing a corset at a fancy-ass fucking party, for Christ’s sake. 

“A _corset_?” he asks, voice rough and strangled and at a level so far beyond turned on he doesn’t know if he can even come back from it. He trails his free hand down across her ribcage. “Jesus Christ, Claire— you tryin’ to kill me?”

Her answering laugh is breathless and soft, and she tries again to roll her hips against his as she boldly catches his gaze, unwavering. “Maybe,” she murmurs, licks her lips, and something in Brad _snaps_. That last thread of self-control he was holding onto has abandoned him in the face of the knowledge that _this_, here, now, was Claire’s _intention_ when she got dressed earlier tonight. 

He thinks he may actually _growl_ as he captures her lips in a harsh kiss, as he rolls his hips against hers over and over, hard and fast and designed to drive her crazy. It seems to work, he notes slightly smugly, as he feels her knees start to buckle underneath her and he uses his free hand to grip her thigh and coax her legs around his waist. At this new angle, Claire can better grind her hips down against Brad and he knows he needs to stop it or things will be over before they even start. 

His hand moves from her thigh to her hip, his large hand big enough and strong enough to still her movements while his other keeps her hands locked above her head. 

“_Brad_,” she pants, whines, and snarls all at once, because she was _so close_ and he knows she was— it’s part of the reason he stopped just when he did. She was so close she could practically have tasted it, her entire body started trembling and her thighs had tightened around him enough that he knew she was _right there_. “Brad,” she groans again, trying in vain to shift enough that she could rock herself down on him again. “Oh, you fucker,” she huffs when she isn’t successful. 

He laughs, biting down at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, then soothing the spot with his tongue. “That’s the idea, babe.”

He moves his hand again, this time sliding it torturously slowly up her leg, starting behind her knee and ending at her inner thigh. Claire tries shifting enough that she can feel him where she’s wet and hot and wanting but Brad restrains, always moves his hand so he’s _just_ not close enough. Then, he slides his hand a little closer, expecting to come into contact with the fabric of her underwear, but instead being met by her slick heat. He lets out an involuntary strangled kind of sound against the skin of her neck.

“Jesus— fuck, Saffitz, you fuckin’—”

He plunges two fingers into her, setting a rough, punishing pace. She arches her back against him, gasping. She’s writhing against him, rocking down on his hand, matching his rhythm. Brad’s mumbling words into her neck as he bites and sucks his way across it, telling her she’s a devil, a tease, she’ll kill him one day, she’s gorgeous, she’s perfect, she looks so sexy in a corset and all the fuckin’ time. 

Claire only pants in his ear in response, and he can tell she’s getting closer and closer to her peak. She starts moving in almost frantic movements, like she’s scared he’ll stop just before she falls again (he won’t; the pleasure of watching her come undone is not one he can deny himself twice), her entire body is trembling and her breaths are leaving her in shaky, hollow gasps, restricted by the corset. 

She buries her face in the side of his neck and bites down to muffle the long, wrecked moan she lets out as she comes. Her entire body tenses, her muscles all coiling tight before they burst like the stars she’s probably seeing and then she sags against him. “Fuck,” she whispers, boneless. “Brad, that—”

“Shh,” he hushes, capturing her lips with his in a dirty kiss, finally letting go of her wrists, allowing her hands to drape over Brad’s shoulders and play with his hair in a mirror image of what she did earlier that night, using her nails to scratch lightly, teasingly. He groans, and shifts to let her feel the hard length of him through his dress pants (…and underwear, sadly, he has to wear them with his suit) and relishes in the needy whine that slips out of her. “Not finished yet,” he murmurs, gripping one hand under her thigh and using the other to explore under the fabric of her dress. 

He traces the edges of the corset with his fingers, works her up slowly, working towards a crescendo she won’t soon forget. Claire isn’t much for teasing, however; she gets impatient and needy and desperate and usually he’s more than happy to oblige her but tonight, here, he has all the power. He moves with torturous, deliberate movements, frees each breast from her dress while being careful not to touch her straining nipple. “Nngh,” she grunts, and twists and shifts and manoeuvres, presses her heels into Brad’s ass, clearly trying to speed Brad along or at least relieve some of the tension and arousal fluttering through her bloodstream. “Please.” 

He captures her nipple in his mouth, sucks it lightly and captures the hard bud between his teeth, then mumbles, “patience,” against her skin. Her head tips back against the door and another needy, whiny sound escapes her. “Careful,” he mumbles, circling her other nipple now with his tongue, still working to drive her as insane as she’s driven him, “someone might hear.”

“_Fuck_,” she hisses, making another futile effort for friction but coming up short and drooping against him again. She switches tactic. She draws her fingers through his hair, agonisingly slow. She tugs at it and rakes her nails very lightly across his scalp; her lips move to his jaw, pressing kisses and gentle nips and bites to the scruff there. She manages, finally, another fervent, dirty grind against the hard length of him. 

At this, Brad growls, moves them so she isn’t pressed against the locked door anymore, but instead a wall. She’s pressed much tighter to it than she was the door, and her already shallow breathing is intensified. Brad unzips his dress pants and tugs his underwear pants down, letting them pool at his knees or his ankles, wherever they settle, he can’t find it within him to care in the moment. He pins her hands above her head again and she writhes and narrows her eyes at him in response. 

“Brad,” she mumbles, trying to free her hands. “Let me— ah, shit— let me touch you.” 

Without responding, he lines himself up at her entrance, then enters her in one rough, smooth thrust upwards at the same time he kisses her as rough and insistently. Claire lets out a shuddering gasp against his mouth in surprise, but quickly finds his rhythm and matches it, rocking down on him as he thrusts up into her. The sounds of skin slapping and gasps and moans and groans and whines and pants reverberates around the room and sounds far louder than it should, which only makes what they’re doing so much more intense. 

Outside this restroom, where he’s thrusting roughly and unrelentingly into Claire, there’s a party. There are probably over a thousand people who could walk by and potentially hear him and Claire giving in to their most basic, carnal desires at any time. It should disturb him or embarrass him, but he only plunges into her harder and faster, inching closer and closer to the release that’s coiling inside of him. 

Claire’s close, too, the muscles of her thighs starting to shake and slip again. Her hands try again to wriggle free and she breathes out, “please,” into him, brands the needy sound into his skin so he’ll never forget it. “Please,” she begs (how he so _loves_ when she begs), “I need—”

She doesn’t finish, she doesn’t have to, as Brad’s hands leaves the nipple he was tugging and tweaking and trails it over the curves of her body. He runs it over the dip of her waist and the curve of her hips, tracing the landscape of her body, pausing in his travels to squeeze a handful of her ass in his palm, finally stopping inside her thigh, tantalisingly close to where he knows she’s desperate for his touch. 

He’d love to drag it out longer, leave her on the precipice of her orgasm where everything inches her closer and closer to an edge she can’t fall off. He’d love to linger and tease, worship and stretch the moment into eternity but they have to get back to the party sometime, and Brad’s inching closer and closer to his own release. He can only stave it off for so long when she feels this good around him, hot and tight and wet, and when she looks like she does, head thrown back against the door, lipstick smeared and lips swollen from kissing him, her neck creamy white and pink and purple from his rough assault, her breasts spilling out of her dress and the top of a _corset_ peaking out from the fabric. 

Frantically, desperately, he seeks out her clit with his thumb, rubbing in hard, fast, sure circles so that he has to kiss her to silence the incredibly loud noise that started falling from her lips. He knows he can’t last much longer and he’s unwilling to let go before she does. 

“C’mon, babe,” he coaxes, pressing down harder on her clit in perfect tandem with the angle of his thrust hitting _that_ _spot_ inside of her and she explodes around him. Her walls clamp down and squeeze him and he follows after her with a strangled sort of sound that he tries to muffle against her shoulder as he spills himself inside her. 

They take a few moments to come down from their high, they catch their breaths after their exertion, and eventually Brad softens and slips out of her. Claire groans at the loss of him, hypersensitive and marginally sore from the punishing pace Brad set. Brad sets Claire’s feet back on the floor, and with one final, sloppy, searing kiss, stepping back from her and immediately regretting the loss of heat.

From a pace backwards, Brad sees how utterly debauched Claire looks. Her hair is askew, her makeup a little smudged (though mostly, he notes with surprise, not too bad), the pale column of her neck displays his marks clearly, and her dress is pulled down at the top and rucked up around her hips at the bottom. She’s leaning against the wall and still breathing heavy, shallow breaths, inhibited as she is by the corset. 

“Y’alright?” he asks and is surprised at hearing his voice is still gravelly and low. 

“Mhmm,” Claire hums contentedly, looking at him through hooded eyelids, “Legs… gimme a minute.”

“Okay,” he chuckles softly, pressing a kiss against her cheek before tugging his pants back up and tucking himself into them. He walks over to the sink and turns the tap so warm water starts flowing out to clean Claire up. She crosses the room towards him, on only somewhat steady legs, wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him from behind. 

“I love you,” she presses into the fabric of his suit jacket, and he turns in her arms with a smile on his face. She’s straightened her dress, the fabric covering all appropriate areas now and she’s wiped the lipstick off from around her mouth. He leans into and captures her lips in a lingering, adoring kiss that has her knees threatening to give way again. 

“I love you, too, Claire.” He grabs the tissue he was wetting with warm water and extends it towards her general direction. “Here,” he says, “I gotcha this so you could, ya know, clean up the mess we made.”

She laughs at the waggle he adds to his eyebrows to cheekily punctuate the sentence and presses another, chaste kiss to his lips. “I’m okay, Leone. I kinda like knowing that _you_ know that the _only_ thing I’m gonna be able to think about is what we just did in here because I can _feel_ it.”

Brad groans a guttural, needy groan and pulls her closer to him, resting his forehead against hers. “Well, _now_ I do. You’re gonna be the death of me, woman.” 

“Damn right.” 

They leave the restroom, and manage another ten minutes in the ballroom before Brad can’t cope anymore and drags Claire away, not giving her a second to think or protest as he ushers her towards her Brooklyn apartment (not that she _would_ protest, she’s already vibrating with anticipation at the thought of how thoroughly Brad can wreck her in a bed). 

Brad actually shows his face less at this event than at every other that have come before it. He was inside the venue for _much_ longer than normal, however. 

(They stumble into the apartment already grappling at each other’s clothes. In the chaos, Brad loses his tie _somewhere_ and Brad rips part of Claire’s corset in unadulterated desperation. They don’t reach the bed until round three; Claire is even more thoroughly wrecked than she thought she’d be). 

**Author's Note:**

> from the discord about a month ago, in which we had a discussion that basically went like this: 
> 
> brad, claire + condé nast party + slinky black dress + corset + commando + brad fucking her against a wall in the bathroom of the party
> 
> i hope you enjoyed and pls feel free to comment or find me on tumblr @stupidsecretthings! <3


End file.
